


Courage of the Lamb

by FireEye



Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-05
Updated: 2011-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-19 00:56:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FireEye/pseuds/FireEye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trusting politics and war to those with strength of heart, Rafa finds another way.  PSX Flavor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Courage of the Lamb

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chacusha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chacusha/gifts).



> Prompt: Rafa. Pick from any of the following: her childhood; her sibling relationship with her brother; interacting with any other party member (I like Mustadio and Meliadoul, but could be anyone, really). Heaven and Hell contrasts for her and Malak would be awesome, esp. for fanart! Working in Rafa's canonical low bravery into a story could also be pretty interesting! As you can probably tell by this prompt, I'm more familiar with the original localization, not the War of the Lions re-release.

The wildflowers were in full bloom, carpeting the churchyard.  In the height of spring, Rafa walked barefoot through the myriad of color, basked in the warm sunlight and the sweet fragrance of herbs and blossoms and the songs of birds, spun gaily at the center of it all.  Carefree, innocent, _free at last_.

Freedom.  At a cost.

She fell amidst the grass, lost in reverie.  Her indistinct childhood, Duke Barinten’s care and trespasses both, the dealings with Ramza and his band of heretics – a more devout man, she had yet to meet... it was all a forgotten lifetime ago.  She had wandered aimlessly throughout the autumn, while the kingdom fell to pieces around her; wintered at the church out of necessity; and emerged from the long night born anew.

As she lay unmoving, butterflies flittered overhead, displaced by her presence.  One in particular – tan and blue and black – drifted low over her, bobbing up and down.  Slowly, she raised her hand, capturing it upon her open palm.  Slower still, she sat upright, folding her hands in her lap, with the butterfly upon them.  It rested calmly, wings twitching.  Around them, many of the others descended once again, dancing from flower to flower.

This was peace.  Heaven.

Rafa wished Malak were here with her.  She didn’t think of him often, but she thought of him fondly.  He had joined Ramza’s crusade gladly, where she... hadn’t.  _Couldn’t_.  She was no warrior, no mage, no saint.  She was a scared young woman, and while she wished there was more she could have done, there was nothing... all it took was one mere skirmish – not even against demons, but highwaymen – for her to realize that she was a liability.  No amount of spirit would make up for cowardice; war was simply not her place.

She had left in the middle of the night, seeking to slip away softly.  Orlandu had found her, escorted her to safety without judgements.  It was for the best.

She hoped that Ramza would understand.  She prayed that Malak would.

The best she could do for them was live.

In the churchyard, amidst the resplendence of spring, she dreamed of death.

***

  
Spring waned, giving way to summer.  Rafa remained at the small church, trading chores and labor for a hay mattress in the barn and a seat at the table come breakfast and supper.  The nuns never asked about her past, merely seemed delighted with her presence.  She once began to confess to one sister, Mairead, as she helped with weeding and sowing of the root garden, but the woman had shushed her nervous babble almost at once.

“God understands more than you think,” she said.  “If you truly seek forgiveness, He won’t care how you got here, only that you’re here now.  And helping a pious old woman with her potatoes.” Mairead had looked her in the eye then, and jabbed one crooked finger at her chest.  “It is for His judgement, not mine.”

Rafa prayed that night, eventually falling asleep in the nave.  The nuns blessed her dedication from that day on, which only made her blush.

One fair afternoon, she went to town to peddle the nuns’ wares, to find jubilation in the streets.  The lingering turmoil was over, and a commoner was king.

Delita.

What it meant – for the kingdom, for her brother, for her future – she couldn’t begin to guess.  So she smiled with the townsfolk and wished for the best.

***

  
The coronation changed nothing at the church.  The sisters went about their humble lives, content in their faith and beyond the ever changing tapestry of the kingdom’s history.  Their certainty was a blessing and a bearing.

Some days later, Rafa sat in the churchyard, with a basket of thread at her side, a frame of cloth on her lap, and an embroidery needle in hand.  She was only learning the art, but it was soothing to practice.  There was light enough to see by, although the sun had yet to rise; the morning fog had yet to fully dissipate, and still clung in fluffy patches to the shallow dales beneath the knoll.

A voice drifted over the stone wall, calling her name... harsh, cold as steel, and, above all, familiar.  She listened for a moment, frozen in place; when no words came beyond the first, she tossed aside her embroidery and, at a run, vaulted over the lowest point of the wall.  On the other side, her brother waited, silent and still.

She wanted to run to him, embrace him, but hung back.  Something was strange... wrong, somehow.  Something was changed.  Malak didn’t move toward her, standing tall and indifferent as he always had.  Rafa smiled to see him, and he smiled back, easing her heart.

“Rafa.”  His voice was chill as ice, and sent a shiver down her spine.  “It’s finally over.”

“I heard,” she replied, smoothing her skirts.

“Did you?”  Surprise crossed his face.  “What did you hear?”

“About Lord... King Delita, and...” Rafa watched herself crumble, and could do nothing to stop it.  “Malak... I’m sorry I ran.  I didn’t-... I had to.”

“No,” he interrupted her ramble, holding up a hand.  “It’s good that you did.  I shouldn’t even be here, but I... I had to tell you, myself.”

“Delita was a fool and a pawn.  The corruption... the demons, the root of all that evil...” Malak ran his fingers through his hair.  They stood in silence, as the sun rose beyond the hill.  “Ajora himself called this hell down upon us.”

“I can’t believe that.”  Rafa cast her eyes downward to the earth and grass.  Yet her brother’s words rang true, in at least that he believed them.

“You have to,” Malak growled, finally stepping towards her.  “And you should leave this place.  There is no God, sister, only lies.”

Rafa raised her head to challenge him, but clamped her hands over her mouth, suppressing a squeal of surprise and terror.  Malak cast no shadow, for the morning sunlight streamed through him, dappling the summer grass.

 

 _**the end** _

**Author's Note:**

> The first time I played FFT, one of the siblings (although I think it was Malak) ran off, presumably due to high or low faith/courage scores. And I've always wondered where the characters who leave the party end up. Anyway - I hope you enjoy it.


End file.
